A Crack to the Head
by LookingBeyondTheEmbers
Summary: While coming back to Paris from a successful mission, the Inseparables are attacked by a gang of bandits. D'Artagnan takes a blow to the head, but when he wakes up, he gives the Musketeers a different perspective on things... Crack!fic, not meant to be taken seriously at all. T for swearing. All reviews welcome. Spoilers from 2x07 all the way through the season finale.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, everyone! I've recently been pulled into the fandom that is The Musketeers, and I have to say, it's fantastic. I've had a lot of ideas for some fanfic after watching the first two seasons, but when I sat down to write one, the muse ordered this instead. Sorry. Anyway, it was a lot of fun to write, and I regret nothing. Some light hurt/comfort, hopefully lots of humor.

I don't have a beta, all mistakes are my own. As for the dates of discovery and things mentioned, I mostly just Googled them. I tried to be semi-historically accurate, but there are bound to be errors.

I hope you guys get a laugh out of this, or at least a giggle, and have a great day! :)

Namaste.

D'Artagnan listened contentedly to Porthos and Aramis chuckling quietly at some private joke as his horse walked easily down the path. Athos rode by his side, taciturn as ever, but possessing a quiet strength d'Artagnan had come to rely on. They were traveling back to Paris from a successful mission delivering a package of moderate importance to a nobleman several leagues from the city, with no casualties and very little trouble, if he was being completely honest with himself. The young man was constantly reminded of the privilege-and the burden-of bearing the _fleur-de-lis_ crest on his newly-commissioned pauldron.

Athos suddenly pulled his horse up short, stopping him in the middle of the trail. It was enough to shock d'Artagnan immediately out of his reverie, and the others pulled up behind him.

"What is it?" Aramis asked quietly. Athos just stayed stock-still on his horse, ignoring the question. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Bandits!" he hissed, just as a musket shot rang through the air. The musketeers immediately moved into their defensive tactics, spreading out and moving quickly, both to ascertain which direction the enemy was from and to make a moving target.

D'Artagnan stole a backwards glance towards his companions, and noticed a man crouching in the underbrush, aiming a musket at Aramis.

" _Aramis! Look out!_ " he screamed at his friend, but Aramis had already drawn one of his pistols. He fell sideways in the saddle, holding by his left leg and heel as his horse—well-trained for maneuvers such as this—pranced and jigged to avoid being hit. He fired, aim straight and true as ever as he looked down the barrel towards the would-be assassin. The man didn't have time to pull the trigger as Aramis's bullet embedded itself in his left eye.

D'Artagnan quickly pulled his own pistol and shot a man running at Porthos, who was currently engaged in a sword-fight, as Athos quickly dispatched his own enemy in a similar fashion. Wheeling his horse around sharply, he went to Aramis's side who had dismounted and was now petting his horse's nose and whispering quiet assurances.

Others in the garrison had thought it odd that the elegant man should talk to his horse. Aramis had always claimed that the more you talked to a horse, the better it would serve and obey you in times of battle. D'Artagnan had always listened to this explanation with a skeptical ear.

After witnessing the grace and ease with which Aramis had just completed the shot, he was hard pressed to doubt the truth of the older musketeer's statement.

He dismounted quickly and skidded to a halt on the forest floor, watching Athos and Porthos defeat their enemies with a final ringing of their swords. He looked around, wary of any other attackers, but didn't see anyone and turned back to Aramis.

Aramis smiled as he looked at the young man in front of him, eyes round and amazed, who seemed awestruck.

His smile faded as he turned to his other companions and saw a blooming patch of scarlet on Porthos' right shoulder.

"I'd better take a look at that," he said, purposefully moving towards the larger man. Porthos backed away, scowling.

"It's fine, 'Mis. Just a graze. Doesn't even need stitches," he said quickly.

Aramis fixed him with a look that threatened bodily harm if he disobeyed his supreme medical authority. Porthos immediately began unfastening his doublet so Aramis could have a better look.

After giving it a thorough examination and probing at the edges of the slice, Aramis hummed in approval.

"Looks like you're right this time, my friend. It should heal nicely, without the aid of my needlework," he smiled, and the larger man grinned back.

Athos watched the well-worn exchange impassively, although Aramis would swear he could see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

None of them noticed the sole remaining bandit, creeping silently through the underbrush towards where d'Artagnan stood near the tree line.

"Aramis, what shooting! God above, what shooting!" D'Artagnan said in a voice full of wonder. Aramis turned to face the young Gascon with a cocky smirk, that quickly morphed into concern.

"D'Artagnan!" he yelled, as the bandit leapt from his cover in the underbrush. The bandit pulled his sword and sliced at the musketeer, missing him by mere inches. The man ran into him, knocking the air from his lungs and landing on him painfully. Raising his sword, the bandit hit the Gascon's temple sharply with the pommel of his sword. D'Artagnan's eyes rolled into his head as he went unconscious.

As the bandit began charging at Porthos, Athos's pistol rang out, aim sure and gaze unfaltering as the bullet struck the criminal square in the chest, near his heart.

Aramis crossed the distance between himself and d'Artagnan in two easy strides and fell to his knees. Athos quickly dropped down beside him, followed almost immediately by Porthos.

Aramis tapped the young man's cheek lightly, hoping to rouse him. He got no reaction, and gently lifted d'Artagnan's head to examine the darkening bruise on his temple. He hissed in sympathy, and even Athos winced at the injury.

"D'Artagnan," the Comte said, gently rubbing the center of the unconscious man's chest. Aramis nodded in approval. The youth's eyes fluttered, and he stirred weakly, but didn't wake.

"Hey. D'Artagnan," Aramis tried, tapping his cheek again insistently. "You with us?"

There was no reaction. Porthos reached forward to squeeze his hand with a strong but careful grip.

"Oy. Whelp."

The man was clearly struggling to regain consciousness, eyelids fluttering and head turning from side to side. Finally, his eyes opened to see the faces of his worried friends gazing down at him.

His face contorted into a grimace of pain and his eyes slid shut again. "Ow," he managed quietly. Aramis looked at his friends with worry. Normally the Gascon wouldn't admit to pain even if he was bleeding out. Seeing him do so now told him how bad off the youth actually was.

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asked, eyes opening and seeking out Athos's steady gaze.

"You were hit by a bandit," his mentor replied, tone calm as ever.

"We got him," Porthos supplied helpfully.

Aramis took him by the chin and forced him to look him in the face, examining his eyes for telltale signs of a concussion. Finding his pupils uneven sizes, he sighed and rocked back on his heels

"Wait," d'Artagnan slurred, propping himself up on an elbow amid protests from his friends. "You killed him?" he asked, eyes wide and voice noticeably higher than normal.

Aramis looked at the other musketeers in bewilderment, his expression mirrored in their faces.

"Well, yeah," Porthos said eventually, sounding confused. "Should we have done anything else?"

"Why would you kill anyone?" d'Artagnan yelled, partly from fear, partly from anger. "He was an extra! He didn't even have any lines! I know what he did was unscripted, but that's not a reason to _kill_ the guy!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Athos asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment.

"What script? We don't understand what you're saying, d'Artagnan," Aramis said worriedly, reaching forward to probe at the contusion on his head again. "Are you alright?"

The young man slapped his hands away. "No, I'm not alright! My head hurts and you've just killed a man!"

"Bit touchy, isn't he?" Porthos remarked dryly.

"Where's the director? Why hasn't anyone cut the take yet?" The Gascon demanded.

"D'Artagnan, what director? What do you mean, 'take'?" Athos asked him, gazing earnestly into the younger man's eyes.

"Stop calling me that," he replied.

Porthos' eyebrows shot up. "Should we call you anything different?" he asked gruffly, while Aramis just frowned.

The youngest musketeer rolled his eyes. "You could call me by my name."

Silence reigned supreme for a full five seconds in which the confused young man found himself the object of intense scrutiny.

"That's it," Aramis said. "We're going back to the garrison. We'd better have LeMay look him over. I've never seen a head injury with effects like this, nor have I heard of anyone with similar symptoms."

"He can ride with me," Athos said smoothly. "I'm not sure he should ride after such a blow."

Porthos had already stood up and was preparing to mount his horse.

"What? Where are we going? The ER?" the young man asked, bewildered.

"No," Aramis said patiently, deciding to ignore the confusing letters entirely. "We're going to Paris, to the garrison, where Doctor LeMay can look you over."

"Why would we—" the young man seemed to look around, eyes widening in understanding. "Wait. So we're actually in France right now? In 1630?"

"Yes," Athos said, torn between real concern for his protegee and relief that the man finally seemed more lucid.

He turned to face Aramis, with an unreadable expression. "You really believe you are Aramis then, don't you?" the elegant man stared at the younger with a look of deep concern before answering, "Well, who else should I be?"

"Oh, hell," D'Artagnan stated, before dropping his head into his hands.

"Time to go," Athos intoned, and swung himself up easily into the saddle, extending a hand to d'Artagnan who took it with a resigned look. Sitting behind him and clinging to the older man's waist as they set off at a gallop, the young man closed his eyes and prayed that this was all a dream.

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Three hours later with a sore backside and his head thumping in time with the horse's rhythm, he was forced to admit that it wasn't a dream. Aramis finally called a halt to their trek and dismounted under a copse of birch trees. "We'll rest here for a while, we should reach Paris in an hour or so," he announced.

D'Artagnan slipped off the horse, but his legs were unsteady and buckled under him. It was only Aramis' quick reflexes which kept him from faceplanting at Athos' feet. Grasping him around the waist, the medic led him to one of the trees and leaned him against it. D'Artagnan found himself exhausted and dizzy, making it a struggle to keep his eyes open.

"Here, you need to drink," he heard Aramis say and felt a water skin thrust into his hand. He took a swig from the pouch, eyes shooting open when the water hit his tongue. Quickly, he turned the pouch upside down and drained it, causing Aramis to grab the skin from him and say reproachfully, "Slowly, d'Artagnan, not all of it!"

"That's the best water I've ever had in my life," the young man said, voice filled with wonder.

Aramis decided to let that comment slide, whatever it meant.

"Feeling better?" he asked, noting that a little color had come back into the lad's face.

"Yeah," he said, running his hand idly over the grass blades.

Athos sat down near the two, distributing some kind of hard traveling biscuit to the group. Porthos joined them shortly after tying off the horses.

D'Artagnan fixed them all with a scrutinizing look, which Porthos would had found comical under different circumstances. The whelp seemed to be trying so hard to understand what was going on but couldn't quite manage it.

"You seem confused," Athos said quietly, hoping to prompt conversation after an awkward silence fell over the group.

"Of course I'm confused!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, losing all composure.

"This one's got a bit of a temper when he's concussed," Porthos muttered to Aramis.

"I'm not sure what's going on," Aramis murmured back, not taking his eyes off the agitated youth.

"I'm supposed to be in Prague, shooting the last few episodes before the finale!" he continued, oblivious to the exchange between the warrior and the medic.

"But instead, I've somehow managed to land myself _inside_ the damn show, where everyone thinks the plot is real!"

He froze for a second, frowning over his words.

"D'Artagnan, upon my honor, I don't understand what you mean," Aramis said earnestly, looking into the young man's face.

The Gascon scowled.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? Okay, this is gonna be hard."

He took a deep breath.

"All of us are actors in the 21st century, filming this story for a television show sponsored by the BBC network, currently shooting in Prague. None of this is real, it's all made up." he said.

Seeing no response, he continued.

"You're not actually Athos, Porthos and Aramis. Those were just fictional characters made up by a French write who won't be born for another two hundred years or so. Our job is to portray these characters while being recorded for mass entertainment around the world according to a script the writers give us, which can be pretty tragic, and kinda sadistic, when you actually think about it."

He let out his breath and waited for a reply.

"What do you mean, recorded?" Porthos asked, voice dangerously low.

"That's your question in all of this?" Athos asked with thinly veiled frustration.

"Your real name is Howard Charles," the Gascon said. Swiveling, he pointed to Athos. "And yours is Tom Burke. And yours is Santiago Cabrera," he said, turning to the handsome medic.

"No, d'Artagnan," Athos said, face stoic but his eyes full of pain untouched by years past. "My brother was named Thomas, not I."

"No, _Athos'_ brother was named Thomas," d'Artagnan said exasperatedly.

"A Spaniard's name?" Porthos interrupted. "Aramis is French, like the rest of us."

The Gascon rolled his eyes. "He was born in Chile."

"D'Artagnan, I've never heard of that place, much less lived there," Aramis said softly.

"Well, you did!" D'Artagnan shot back. "Why can't you guys remember any of this?"

"As far as we know, none of this has ever existed," Athos said flatly.

D'Artagnan was about to snap back, but then reached into his pocket.

"I have proof," he said, triumphantly, pulling out a scrap of what Aramis assumed to be parchment.

"Look. This was a great prank guys, I'll admit it, you got me. But joke's over now," d'Artagnan said.

Athos took the paper from him and looked at it, noting the cloth content the paper must have contained in the texture.

"I can't read this," he said. "I believe it's in English."

Aramis took it and nodded his agreement.

"You're speaking English, stupid!" d'Artagnan yelled.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

"I'm speaking French. As are the rest of us. Because we're _in France_ ," he said slowly, as if to a child.

"Oh, my God," the Gascon closed his eyes. "You think you're speaking French because of the story and timeline. But you're speaking English, all of you. This is a BBC program. As in British Broadcasting. England," he said, enunciating his point with a pointed glare at all of them.

Porthos stared at him openly, jaw slightly agape.

"None of us can read this," Aramis said, looking at the paper.

"Dude, you know four different languages, one of them being English. Just read the damn paper and quit messing with me," D'Artagnan said tiredly.

"What in the name of hell is a dude?" Porthos mused quietly to himself.

"I can speak only French and Spanish," Aramis returned, never losing his patience and resolutely ignoring Porthos.

"Okay, fine. I'll read it then," he said, snatching the paper from Porthos' grasp.

"It says, 'As camera moves to left, bandit appears. Crouches from underbrush, Luke disarms from side. Normal dialogue follows fight scene, resume script after short cut.'"

They all stared at him in shock.

"What in God's name does any of that noise mean? And where did you learn to speak English?" Athos voiced the question mirrored in his companions.

"Jesus Christ, it's English! You're speaking it right now!" d'Artagnan screeched.

Athos raised an eyebrow at his companions, who looked shocked at the young man's usage of the blasphemous term.

"I think we need to get him back to LeMay. Now."

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Aramis quietly gave his thanks to the heavens that Paris was only an hour's ride, because d'Artagnan refused to stop talking. His conviction that he was somehow in the wrong time mixed with his concussion produced some bewildering comments, which would be hilarious if they weren't so worrisome.

"You know what?" the Gascon babbled to himself. Everyone had long since ceased to answer him.

"I don't think I liked the last episode. You 'member when we all sat down and read the script? It was pretty crappy, and the only good thing about it was that Bonacieux died. And even that wasn't great because Constance still doesn't wanna be with me. And you, brother," he said, pointing an unsteady finger at Aramis.

"You gotta watch out for Marguerite, man. Two-timing, double-faced _hag_ ," he spat.

At Aramis' shocked look, he hurriedly said, "She's working with Rochefort! And she knows." The special emphasis he put on the last word along with a meaningful look at Aramis confirmed his suspicion. The musketeer's heart sank.

"Hag," d'Artagnan said, clearly not finished insulting the Royal Governess.

"How—" Aramis began before being cut off sharply by a look from Athos.

"D'Artagnan clearly isn't himself right now. Nothing he says should be taken with weight," he said to the others.

"I can hear you," the young man said angrily. "And also, you're gonna get a promotion, but it'll stop you from doing what you really want, and you're gonna do the whole, "I will do what I must and end up liking it but also hating it and wishing I could drink into oblivion every night cuz I'm an emo" routine. It's really depressing, man. And your true love is a hag, too. I'm not really sure it's her fault anymore, though," the man broke off, frowning.

"That's enough, d'Artagnan," Porthos said, not liking where this conversation was headed.

"Oh, the teddy bear of the group decides to speak up," the young man said sarcastically.

"A teddy bear?" Porthos asked, feeling his temper rise despite his earlier vow to stay calm.

"It's a stuffed animal that children snuggle with at night because it's so adorable and fuzzy," d'Artagnan clarified.

"I am not fuzzy. Or adorable," Porthos growled.

"Oh, please," d'Artagnan said. "You are, though. You're so caring that the idea of one of us dying makes you cry."

"How did you know that?" Porthos asked, a note of real dread creeping into his tone. "You weren't even at the funeral."

"It was in the script," d'Artagnan said, for what had to be the thousandth time. "All of this was in the script."

"We're here," Athos announced loudly as they approached the gates of the garrison.

Hurriedly, they dismounted and pulled d'Artagnan off the back of Athos' horse. The lad seemed disoriented again by all the sudden movements.

Treville greeted them at the entrance.

"Hey, Hugo. I mean Captain. Whassup?" d'Artagnan slurred, leaning heavily on Aramis' shoulder.

"What's the matter what him?" Treville asked, leaning closer to examine the Gascon.

"He's concussed," Aramis answered quickly, not about to get into it right then. "Can you have LeMay sent to the recovery rooms? I think I'll need help," he said.

Treville's mouth tightened at the implied gravity of the situation and nodded. "I'll send for him right away."

They carried d'Artagnan into the room, and wiped his face down with a damp cloth. "After you get some sleep, you'll be fine," Aramis assured the uncooperative patient, who's surliness seemed increased after their short respite.

"Maybe you'll wake up and realize I was right the whole time," he said back snarkily.

At that moment, the door opened and LeMay came in, case in hand. His quick eyes assessed the situation and moved to where the injured youth slumped on the bed.

"What happened to him?" LeMay said, long fingers carefully probing the growing lump on d'Artagnan's head.

"Oh, you guys don't know the script," he said, looking at LeMay with wide eyes. "You need to wear your Plot Armor," he told the doctor firmly.

"I don't know what you mean, d'Artagnan," he said, checking his scalp for contusions.

"No, you need to wear your Plot Armor for the next couple episodes, dude," the Gascon insisted. "You were the Redshirt this time."

"Alright, I'll wear it," LeMay said seriously, although he turned away from the injured man and motioned for the musketeers to follow him into the other room.

"Rest now, d'Artagnan, we'll be back shortly," he said, before leading them to the connecting room, to give them some room to speak.

The young man gave an exaggerated sigh and started kicking his feet back and forth, humming "Ain't No Sunshine" contentedly.

"He was hit with a sword pommel," Porthos told LeMay.

"He's very obviously concussed, but he's never said anything like this before," Aramis said.

The doctor nodded seriously. "He's bound to be confused for a while, but it shouldn't be affecting him this badly."

"He thinks he's from a different time and we're all part of a story. And he also says we're all speaking English," Athos said calmly.

Suddenly, d'Artagnan's voice bellowed throughout the rooms as he reached his favorite part of the song.

"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone, and she's always gone too long anytime she goes awaaaaaaaaayyy," he trailed off. "So are you guys gonna come back in here, or am I gonna have to start singing ABBA? I will, but I don't want to. Don't make me," he said, a warning note creeping into his voice now.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"He said he could read this," he said, passing over the strange white paper. "You spent some time in England, didn't you?"

LeMay nodded. "I spent some time working in one of their hospitals. I picked up quite a bit of the language."

"I do not recognize many of these words," LeMay said, frowning. "It says, 'As camera moves to left, bandit appears. Crouches from underbrush, Luke disarms from side. Normal dialogue follows fight scene, resume script after short cut.'"

" _That what I freaking said_!" d'Artagnan's muffled shout came to them, accentuated by a thump which was presumably a furious kick to the wall.

"He's whiny when he gets this way," Athos intoned, looking at Aramis, who shrugged.

"Let's go talk to him again. I want to try a few herbs and see what happens," LeMay said.

They walked back over to join their injured comrade just as d'Artagnan was belting the first few bars of "Take On Me."

"Oh, good," he grinned at them. "I didn't want to go through all that."

They all stared at him quietly, as he kicked his legs and gazed around the room, looking for all the world like an overgrown first grader.

"I want you to drink this," LeMay said.

The young man glared at him. "I want you to stay away from Tamla," he snapped back.

"Who is Tamla?" LeMay said, the unfamiliar name rolling of his tongue.

"Oh, I forgot. You would call her Constance," the Gascon said.

"Madame Bonacieux? I have the utmost respect for her, but I—I,' the doctor stuttered, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.

"Mm-hm," d'Artagnan said proudly, grinning.

"Stop harassing him," Aramis said, taking the cup from the doctor's hand and thrusting it into the young man's hand.

D'Artagnan stuck out his tongue and then downed the liquid. He took two large gulps, only to make a grimace and spit most of it out.

"That's disgusting!" he wailed.

"D'Artagnan, for the love of God, even Aramis isn't this bad!" Athos thundered, losing all patience.

"My name is Luke!" the young man yelled, before his eyelids grew heavy. His head dropped to his chest, and he would have pitched forward off the bed if Aramis hadn't caught him.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos said worriedly, coming forward to check the man's eyes, which were half open and slowly looking around the room.

"He's alright, I've given him a light sopoforic," LeMay explained. "He'll sleep for a few hours now, and maybe he'll be more lucid when he wakes up."

They gently eased their friend backwards onto the bed and removed his boots and undid his doublet to make him more comfortable. Aramis' light touch ghosted over his ribs, making sure none of them had been injured.

"St'p feelin' me up, you perv," d'Artagnan said, weakly pushing away Aramis' careful hands.

The older man rolled his eyes and backed away as Porthos grinned.

"You know guys, this season sucks," d'Artagnan said, voice growing soft as he fought the influence of the herbs.

"Just rest now, d'Artagnan," Athos said, brushing his hair back in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

"No, I mean, there are plot twists and betrayals all over the place. People are always tryin' to screw us over…" he trailed off.

"But we get through it. All of it," he said, opening his eyes. Although they were glassy and unfocused, they seemed to sharpen with conviction as he looked at all of them.

"Don't we always?" Porthos asked, smiling down at his friend.

The Gascon's eyes closed, and he drifted away.

Several hours later, the dull throbbing of his head woke him up, and his eyes opened to see the worried medic bending over him.

"Aramis? Athos?" he asked confusedly. The latter musketeer appeared in his line of vision seconds later.

"Where's P'rthos?" he slurred, trying to regain his bearings.

"I'm here," a deep voice said from somewhere to his left.

"Are you finally with us, whelp?"

"Think so?" d'Artagnan's brow furrowed, feeling disoriented.

"Can you remember what happened?" Athos asked him.

"We –were attacked outside of Paris. Bandits," the young man said, the memories washing back. "I saw Aramis shoot one of them. And then-that's about it," he finished.

"You mean you don't remember—" Porthos began, before Aramis swiftly kicked him hard in the ankle.

"He said he doesn't remember," Athos told him menacingly.

Aramis saw d'Artagnan struggling to keep his eyes open again.

"Go back to sleep, we'll be here when you wake up. Hopefully with some food," he said, with a wry grin.

"M'kay," the younger man said, snuggling back into his blankets. "Porthos?"

The huge musketeer leaned forward. "Yeah, runt?"

"I had a dream that you were a teddy bear," the young man said drowsily, before slipping into unconsciousness once more.

Silence fell over the room, punctuated only by the soft sounds of d'Artagnan's breathing.

"Not a word of this to anyone. Ever." Porthos all but growled, before stomping off towards the kitchens amid the ill-concealed laughter of his friends.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ Greetings, everyone! I had originally planned for this to be a one-shot fic, but I got a wonderful review on the first part that actually gave me an idea for this second part. Therefore, this chapter is respectfully dedicated to Enigma TM, who inspired me to write from a different perspective, and also made my sister laugh like crazy while looking it over for me. That being said, rated T for slight swearing, still a crack!fic and not to be taken seriously in any way, shape or form.

All reviews are welcome, even constructive criticism. This one seemed really long, but I didn't know where to shorten it without losing detail. If you would be so kind, just leave a few words saying what you thought, even if you thought it was complete trash that should never have been allowed to take up space on a hard drive anywhere in the world :).

I referenced the original Batman movie (1989) and The Three Musketeers novel by Alexandre Dumas. I tried really hard not to spoil the book because I love it too much to do that to anyone who hasn't already read it. If you're curious about Luke's reaction...read the book :).

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to The Musketeers. Or Batman. I don't even own the laptop I wrote it on or the house I was in at the time.

-Namaste.

D'Artagnan's breath quickened, his heart beat faster. He felt his blood rising, and leveled his sword with his eyes, sizing his enemy up. He felt his brothers doing the same, with his back to them. Suddenly, they moved as one, a whirling flurry of activity suddenly exploding from the tense circle.

He ducked and cut, twirled and slashed in a dance that was as elegant as it was deadly. Deftly dodging a jab sent his way, he unarmed his enemy and turned to the one on his left. All around him were sounds of fighting, and he suddenly hoped fervently that his fellow Musketeers would be alright.

Suddenly, his opponent lunged at him. Stepping forward to meet his adversary, they locked swords. D'Artagnan's arms shook slightly with the force but glared resolutely at the bandit.

"And cut!" a voice from offstage yelled.

Luke immediately backed away and high-fived the stuntman who had been doing the action sequence with him. The stunt guy grinned and shot him a thumbs up before heading off the set to take a quick break.

"That was great, guys!" the director said, coming on set to talk to everyone. Around Luke, Santiago, Howard and Tom all grinned, tired from that day's work, but satisfied with the take.

"Okay, so you fixed the transition that time, it was perfect," the director continued, talking animatedly and using his hands to gesture emphatically.

"Really, really smooth. I'd like to do one more take, just to make sure that we get the look just right. Tom, you need to watch your footwork here, it's a little disjointed between the camera shift," he said.

The actor nodded seriously and accepted the criticism without malice, trusting the director to make the best decisions for the show.

"Take a quick break, and that'll be the last take of the day, alright?" he said, smiling at them.

The four actors playing the Inseparables began walking off stage, slowly stretching and going to find water. Luke walked beside Howard, with Santiago saying something to Tom that made him chuckle.

"Hey, where's Tony?" the director asked a harried looking P.A. who glanced up from her clipboard quickly before shrugging. _"Tony!"_ the director bellowed from where he was standing amid the chaos on set. His yell startled a few stagehands and prop holders who jumped and resumed their work.

"What?!," came a faint yell from the depths of the room. After some moments, a belligerent-looking man with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail stuck his head out from behind a curtain where he was working on wiring.

"Readjust the boom light on the left, will you? The angle is just a little too harsh for the shot," the director said to him, assigning a task, while already moving to a different problem to be addressed.

"You got it," Tony replied, wiping his hands on a dirty handkerchief he produced from his back pocket. The technician moved quickly and took a large-handled screwdriver from his toolbelt as he advanced on the offending light fixture.

As he unscrewed it and moved to adjust it, he heard a commotion from his far right and turned his head to see some of the other people on tech crew struggling with a heavy prop. Hurriedly screwing the light back after making a few hasty adjustments to its angle, he ran over to help the flagging crew.

No one noticed that the grooves weren't tightened all the way, and the heavy light was now precariously resting on only the flimsy stem of a screw.

As Luke and Howard passed under the suspended light, the screw was stretched past both it's breaking point (pardon the pun) and its suggested durability rating.

With a high-pitched metallic shriek, the light fixture came loose, clipping the young actor on the back of the head on its way to the floor. Luke was unconscious before he hit the ground, narrowly missing landing on the light itself.

The other actors turned sharply, shocked to see their friend on the floor.

"Call a medic!" Tom yelled, before coming to Luke's side. The young man wasn't showing any signs of waking. Blood oozed from a small cut on the left side of his forehead.

"Luke," Santiago breathed, before dropping down beside the man. Howard bellowed for the medic again, unnecessarily, before crouching down on the opposite side of the prone man, near Tom.

"What did you fools do now?" a gruff voice drawled from the edge of the room. Everyone crowded around the unconscious man looked up to see the production medic as he hurried onto the set, kit already in hand.

Mounting the stairs with a speed uncommon for someone so old, he unceremoniously pushed Tom and Howard to the side so he could examine the unconscious man.

Peeling open an eyelid, the paramedic waved a penlight into Luke's eye, finding the pupils respond sluggishly. Rotating the young man's head carefully, he examined the gash on Luke's forehead caused by hitting the floor.

As he gently probed at the edges, the actor stirred, groaning.

"Luke?" Tom said, reaching around the medic to tap at his cheek.

The medic slapped Tom's hand away from his patient and turned long enough to glare at the man.

Tom raised an unimpressed eyebrow back, feeling resentful.

"Hey, Pestalecko," the medic said, lightly rubbing at Luke's shoulder.

"His name is Luke _Pasqualino_ ," Howard growled at the medic.

The paramedic rolled his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like, "Whatever, haystack."

Howard gaped at the rude medical official before Santiago put a restraining hand on his shoulder, shaking his head slightly, eyes still glued to their friend.

Luke's eyes opened slowly, not quite aware yet.

"Luke? Can you hear us?" Tom asked, partly pushing his way past the official, who elbowed him half-heartedly, but ended up just moving over for Tom.

The young man's gaze slowly sharpened, wincing in pain and closing his eyes.

"Do you know where you are?" the medic asked him, kindness apparent in voice, even in his gruff tone.

"Umm," the brown-haired man mumbled, squinting his eyes at the room which seemed too bright.

"'Thos? 'Mis? Where's-" he slurred, before Howard's concerned face appeared at the edges of his vision.

"What happened?" he managed, before shutting his eyes again with a groan.

"Where's Treville?" the youth asked again. "Where are we, 'Thos?"

The entire cast and crew turned to look at the medic, who stood dumbfounded as they did. Perceiving that they were all staring at him, he reddened slightly, then fixed them all with a heady glare.

"His concussion shouldn't be severe enough to cause this-" the doctor began, in response to Santiago's accusing glare.

"A frigging stage light fell on his head!" Howard yelled. "I'd say that about qualifies!"

The doctor's scowl deepened. "Just take him home," he snapped.

His voice softened as he looked at the young man, who was clearly still in pain. "He's got a slight concussion," the medic said, "but I don't think it's too serious. He should be able to go home, provided someone is there to watch him for tonight."

" _He thinks we're musketeers!"_ Tom hissed at him.

"There's nothing to be done for him besides a good night's rest and some painkillers," the doctor reiterated, brushing off the knees of his pants. "His vitals are good, he doesn't seem to be in any difficulty. Just let him sleep it off, and see how he is tomorrow."

"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said haughtily, hitching up his belt in an authoritative way.

"There was an accident in the lounge concerning one of the microwaves, and I've got to see to about fifteen injured people."

"Fifteen people?" Santiago asked. "Did it catch fire?"

"No, see," the doctor began. "One person got into a fight with another about who had the better hair-do, and threw a grape. That grape fell on the floor and was squashed. When one of them got up to leave, they slipped and fell into the bottom of the table, bumping it. Unfortunately, the bag of grapes was overturned, and they ended up _everywhere_. So, there's maybe five people who are also falling and overturning tables in the entire lounge. Besides the main chaos of people all over the floor, some of the grapes landed in the microwave."

Pausing to take a breath, he continued, oblivious to the incredulous looks around him.

"So, the grapes are in the microwave, but someone slipped on an orange peel and faceplanted into the microwave itself, managing both to close the door and start the cooking process. So now we've got plasma shooting around, people panicking and screaming, covered in food…" the medic trailed off, a faraway look in his eye.

"Anyway, I have to go take care of that lightning box," he said cheerfully.

"Why didn't you go do that first?" Howard asked, flabbergasted by the story.

"Because!" the medic said forcefully. "I hate grapes! They're the antithesis of everything pure and good in the world!"

With that bewildering comment, he exited the room and left everyone still crowded around the young man who was struggling to his elbows.

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"So, you think your name is Charles D'Artagnan?" Howard said for the third time to the frustrated young man.

They had helped him to a private practice room, and Tom had locked the door so they could talk in peace without fear of being interrupted.

"Why do you keep asking me that?" Luke answered angrily. "You've known me for years!"

"Alright, once more," he said to himself, not waiting for an answer.

"Your name is Tom," he said pointing to the actor, who tersely nodded.

"And yours is Howard," he said, swiveling to the larger man, who smiled and said, "That's right."

"And yours…" he trailed off, looking at the Spaniard. "Sant….Santiado?" he guessed, unable to remember exactly.

"Santi will do just fine for now," the handsome man told him, trying not to show how disappointed he was.

"I don't think he should go back to his flat alone tonight," Tom said, looking at his friends.

"He can stay with me," Howard said immediately.

"Can I stay too?" Santi asked. "I don't want it to be just you two in case something happens."

"Yeah, mate, of course," Howard said easily. They both looked to Tom, who shook his head. "I'll stop by, but I'm not having a sleepover with all of you."

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"Just give me thirty minutes to get back to my flat and grab some overnight things, and I'll meet you at your place afterwards," Tom said, as he hailed a taxi at the curb.

"Luke," Howard said, tugging at his friend's arm, but not getting a response. They had exited the building, heading home for the day since they clearly couldn't finish that mythical "last take" the director had ordered.

Even though they had tried, none of the actors could get Luke to change back into his street clothes or take off his prop sword. They eventually decided it wasn't worth the effort and led him to the door, where the young man couldn't stop staring open-mouthed at everything.

They whisked him out the revolving doors and onto the street where they saw Tom off.

"My flat is this way," Howard said, motioning for Luke to start walking. Santiago turned his collar up against the biting afternoon wind, and Luke found himself wishing for his cloak.

As they walked, Luke stayed silent, too awed by everything. He saw people everywhere around him, holding hands, kissing, yelling, cursing, fighting, ignoring each other. There were signs that hurt his eyes to look at, so full of color and brighter than any flame could ever produce. So many things appeared to be made of metal here, and yet Luke could recognize hardly any of it.

As they hurried along the walkway, Luke bumped roughly against a man who seemed preoccupied with a rectangular piece of metal in his hand.

"Sorry," the man mumbled before starting to walk. Luke grabbed him by the shoulder.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said angrily.

"Hey, mate, I said sorry," the man said, trying to pull away.

"And I say to you, sir, that you are by no means polite!" Luke said to the man. "Running roughly against someone in such a manner is quite undignified and calls for a proper response! Merely saying 'sorry'," his lips twisted disdainfully around the informal word, "is not a sufficient apology."

The man frowned and looked more closely at Luke's clothing and the sword hanging by his side.

"Oh, is this one of those, 'Shakespeare-in-the-park things?" he asked suddenly. "Do you wish to quarrel, sir?" he added playfully.

Luke leaped back, drawing his main gauche.

"If you so wish, sir, let it be done at your will. On your guard!" he exclaimed before thrusting at the man.

"Hey, what the hell?" the man yelled, startling many passerby and having to leap out of the way.

"Luke!" Howard yelled over the din of everyone. It took the young man several seconds to remember that his name was supposed to be Luke.

"I'm very sorry for my friend," Santiago said placatingly to the man.

"He came at me with a sword!" the man yelled again, more angry than scared.

"He said he was sorry,"' Howard growled, stepping forward.

The man stopped, seeing the man's prodigious size. "Whatever, dickhead," he said, before continuing down the walk.

Santiago had to hold on to the outraged young man as he tried to charge after him.

They reached Howard's apartment without any further incident, and led Luke to the main area.

"This is the kitchen," Howard said, showing the young man a small room connecting with the others.

"The living room, my bedroom. And the bathroom," he chatted away. The flat was small and sparsely decorated, but clean and somehow cozy.

"Santi, you know where the spare blankets are, if you want to make up the sofa," Howard said, waving a hand towards the general direction of a supply closet without looking at the handsome man.

"Right," he replied and went to look for the linens.

"A room for baths?" Luke asked, looking bewildered.

"Well, yeah," Howard said. "It also has a toilet and a sink."

"You relieve yourself inside your living space?" Luke said, with a look that was half disgusted, half horrified.

"Umm…" Howard was at a loss for words.

"In this place," Santiago said calmly, coming up beside Howard. "It is considered more sanitary to relieve yourself inside than outside. Certain laws even prohibit us from doing so. It has been helpful in preventing disease for many years," he said smoothly, attempting to inform the man without making it seem like he was a child.

"If you say so," Luke said, looking mistrustfully at the porcelain object.

Howard left the room for the main hallway, chuckling as he went. Of course, his baritone voice carried in the small space, and they both heard him anyway.

Luke glowered, and Santiago rolled his eyes slightly.

"Why don't you take a shower, and Howard and I will order some lunch while you get cleaned up?" he suggested.

"Shower?" the young man asked, face blank.

"Yes, to get clean," the handsome actor said.

"Why should I wash myself now? It is midwinter, and besides, I've just had a bath not two months ago," Luke said, frowning.

"It might make you feel a little better," Santi said cajolingly. "Look, you turn the knob here. "This controls whether the water is hot or cold. There's some soap here already, you can use it. Go ahead and clean up, and I'll ask about ordering some take-away or something," he said.

"Madness," muttered the young man, but began pulling off his clothes before Santiago had even left the room.

"Okay…" Santiago said to himself, turning away and shutting the door quickly.

He went to the kitchen, where Howard was already on the phone, ordering Chinese takeaway for the four of them for lunch. Raising an eyebrow at him, Santiago mouthed 'shower', and Howard nodded in understanding.

There was a knock on the door, and Santiago went to get it. He opened it to find Tom, who had a worn gray duffel slung over one shoulder. "Hey," he greeted him and let the man in.

Tom dropped his bag onto the floor beside the sofa, knowing that was probably where he would spend the night.

"How is he?" he asked without preamble as Howard joined them.

"He still thinks he's d'Artagnan," Santiago said reluctantly. "He's taking a shower now; I thought that maybe seeing some of our stuff might shake him back to reality, but he's just more confused. He needs more time."

"I'm sure it'll come back to him," Howard said, wanting to be optimistic as he saw Tom's face fall.

Tom opened his mouth to speak but stopped, looking at something just over Howard's shoulder.

They turned to see Luke standing at the doorway, still dripping from the shower and not wearing anything but a slight smile as he saw Tom by the door.

"I could not find any cloths for drying," he told Santiago, who looked shocked at his nakedness.

"They're in the closet near the bathroom," Howard said, trying not to laugh his ass off.

"Here, I brought some extra clothes from my flat that you can wear tonight," Tom said smoothly, trying to defuse the situation.

He led the young man into the bedroom with his duffel in hand, rummaging through it as he opened the door.

As the door shut quietly, Howard stifled a giggle, then sobered as he looked at Santi, who was still looking dumbfounded at the bedroom door.

The doorbell rang again. Howard opened it and paid the deliveryman for their food. As he carried it to the kitchen, Tom and Luke reemerged from the bedroom. Luke was dressed in a comfortable pair of Tom's sweatpants and a black t-shirt. The two often stayed at each other's flats and had found out early that they were fairly close in clothing size. Tom was grateful for this fact now.

"Let's eat," Santiago said, breaking the silence. They all sat around Howard's table, talking about nothing in particular, trying to keep to topics Luke would be able to understand. Luke had looked at the chopsticks with undisguised bafflement.

He tried to copy the way the others were using them but ended up throwing them across the room in frustration after he failed to pick his food up for the sixteenth time.

Tom got him a fork from the kitchen and resumed eating like nothing happened.

Luke found the food savory, and unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. He asked questions about everything he saw in the kitchen, and everything he had seen that day. He asked about the food, where it came from, what city they were in, what his clothes were made of. It seemed like he would never stop asking questions.

Santiago was glad and answered all his questions carefully. The more they talked, the more it could be reminding him of his life.

Finally, the food was cleared away, and the dishes were washed. Not knowing what else to do, they all sat down in the living room to watch a movie and unwind from the day.

Sitting down on the couch next to Tom, Luke stared in confusion at the box which projected light and color.

There was a man on it, although he was dressed in an odd sort of armor and throwing around kinds of weapons at nearly a dozen people, who were all pointing a form of pistol at him, Luke guessed.

The music was suspenseful and made the hair on the back of Luke's neck stand up uncomfortably.

"What is this object called, again?" he asked Tom quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

"Television," Tom murmured back.

"It seems like magic," he said, in awe of how bright the colors were, how fearless the man and how sinister his enemies.

"Just science," Tom said, smiling slightly.

"And what is this…'movie' called?" he asked, happy that he remembered the correct word.

"Batman," Tom replied. "It's an old movie about a man who fights crime in his city."

"He is a hero to his people?" Luke asked him, eyes wide.

"Yeah, that's right!" Tom said, glad that he seemed to understand that part, at least.

"How's your head?" he asked, looking at the small cut on his friend's forehead.

"A little sore," his friend admitted. "Nothing I can't handle," he said, suddenly fearful that he would be prevented from finishing the movie.

Santi looked at him from around Howard's chest and grinned slightly, guessing his thoughts. Tom raised an eyebrow at him sardonically and shrugged with a wry smile.

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"So, this Jester—" the young man began

"Joker, Luke. Joker." Howard corrected easily.

"You're right, thank you. The Joker wanted to take control of the entire city by making them as twisted as he?" Luke asked.

"That's right," Santi said from his spot, watching the credits roll.

"His madness is what prompted the Batman to stop him, yes?" Luke asked.

At Tom's encouraging nod, he continued.

"But the Batman was responsible for him becoming the Joker in the first place. Doesn't that make the entire story his fault?" Luke asked.

"He was already a criminal. When he fell into the vat of goo, he was just pushed over the edge," Howard said, looking over at his friend.

"The Batman is a hero," Luke murmured. "He saved an entire city without anyone else's help."

"He also got his ass kicked repeatedly," muttered Howard, who was abruptly elbowed in the ribs by Tom.

"Yeah, Batman's pretty cool," Santiago said. "Later, he gets a sideki—a friend to help him with the crime fighting. His name is Robin."

At Luke's amazed look, he smiled and said, "We'll have to watch it some other time."

They all got up to stretch, and to move about. Tom seemed preoccupied with a small metal device similar to the one the insolent man in the street held, and Luke didn't want to bother him. Howard left to water his plants, and Santiago got up for some water, which amazingly came out of metal pipes in the cooking area.

Luke walked into the kitchen after him, opening the cupboards at random. Taking out a glass plate, he inspected it carefully. It was simple and unadorned, but well-made and almost perfectly round.

Turning to show Santiago the beautiful plate, he caught sight of something that froze him in place and made his heart thud painfully in his chest.

There, on the opposite counter, was a hairy spider, crawling on its horrible, spindly legs.

Gripping the dish white-knuckled, he slowly lifted his arm to line up the shot.

Santiago glanced over and saw his pale face and posture.

"Luke, what—" he began asking before his friend flung the plate at the counter near where the spider was. The glass object missed the spider entirely, which began moving faster. Luke threw again, fingers already reaching blindly for another plate.

"I'm Batman!" he yelled amid the crash of shattering glass, fancying himself the much-admired hero vanquishing an enemy rather than a grown man breaking his friends crockery over a spider.

He seemed to draw strength from the battle-cry and threw several more before realizing that the spider had calmly moved over to the open windowsill and left the flat unscathed by Luke's glassware-fueled wrath.

Howard and Tom hurried in, seeing the damage. "Why would you do that?" Howard snapped, looking regretfully at his broken dishes.

"There was a nasty beast languidly encroaching on your abode. I dispatched it, with a style reminiscent of a great hero, the Batman himself!" Luke said proudly, breath high and cheeks flushed with his perceived victory.

Howard looked over at Tom, who was trying very hard not to burst out laughing.

"Next time, how about we _don't_ show the kid 'Batman'?" he growled menacingly.

Santi nodded, not trusting himself to speak and feeling the grin creep onto his face despite his best efforts.

Howard stomped away, leaving them to get a broom and pick up the broken glass amid Luke's retelling of his gallant endeavors.

After this was accomplished, Luke walked over to Howard's bookshelf, browsing idly. Noticing one book, he took it carefully off the shelf and read the words, " _The Three Musketeers_."

"Athos!" he shouted, forgetting where he was for a moment.

Tom immediately hurried over to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Look! It's a book about you! And me! And Aramis and Porthos! There are tales written of us!" he exclaimed.

"No, Luke, that's not us. I mean, it's the characters we play, but it's not _us_ ," Tom said, trying to explain it to him.

"Let him read it," Santiago said, walking in and seeing the entire scenario. "What harm will it do?"

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A few hours later, and Luke was still engrossed in his book, sitting quietly on the couch. Howard looked at him in disbelief.

"It took me a few hours just to get in the mindset enough to read that book at the rate he's going," he said to Tom, who was leaning against the counter.

"He's already in the time period mentally," Santiago said. "He won't have a hard time with any of the French politics, history or vocabulary because he thinks he's living through it."

"You can't deny that he's tearing through it," Tom said abstractedly. "I've never seen someone read a book like that so _quickly_."

"If he's happy, leave him be," Howard said, shrugging. "I'm going to see what I can make for dinner."

Santiago left to help him, leaving Tom to stare at the young man whose eyes flew across the pages, reading, effectively, the story of his life.

Sometime later, they called Luke to dinner, and sat down at the table. Luke answered them when he was addressed but didn't contribute much to the conversation. Howard and Santiago attributed his brevity to exhaustion, but Tom noticed how his eyes kept straying back to the couch where he had carefully set the book down.

After dinner, Luke approached Tom with the book clutched tightly in his hands and asked if there was somewhere he might continue to read without disturbing everyone.

Tom settled him at a coffee table with a lamp and showed him how to turn it on and off.

Everyone settled down to sleep in the living room, with Santiago and Howard opposite each other on the couch and Tom stretched out on the thick carpet.

They were all drifting off to sleep when an outraged cry filled the flat.

Tom leapt to his feet, ready to fend off the burglar when he saw Luke looking at the book like a normal person would look at a large serpent.

"Luke, what is it?" He approached the young man, while Howard snored on obliviously and Santiago sat up on the couch rubbing his eyes like a child.

"Madness! Lunacy! Erroneous, fraudulent, _sycophantic_ _drivel_!" Luke yelled, throwing the book in his rage.

Unfortunately, Luke's aim happened to be better than ever and sent it sailing straight through the window.

The shattering glass startled Howard awake, who hurried over the broken window just in time to see the book drift down to the alleyway like a bird with broken wings.

"There goes the security deposit," he said with a sigh.

"Luke, what the hell?" Tom yelled, still alarmed at being woken up.

"Don't curse at me!" Luke yelled back. "Have you read that piece of filth?"

"The Musketeers? Yeah, we all read at least parts of it at some point," Santiago said, yawning.

"You got to the end, didn't you?" Tom said, heart sinking in dread at what the young man had read.

"Yes! And it said that—" Luke began angrily.

"It's only a story," Tom interrupted sharply.

"But it was so accurate! It had the smallest details about each of us! It read of your wife, and about your dreams to become an abbé and—"

"It's not real." Santiago cut him off, remembering how that story ended.

Howard frowned. "You woke us up at 3:30 in the morning to throw my book, break my window and complain about a fictional story?"

Luke glared at him like he couldn't imagine a stupider question. "Whatever. Dud," he said, attempting to use the new lingo he had learned that day.

"It's 'dude'," Santiago said, leaning close to him.

" _Dude_ ," Luke repeated, glaring more forcefully at the large actor.

"Okay, we should all get some sleep," Tom said, stepping between the men when he saw Howard step forward menacingly.

"Luke, you can sleep near me, alright?" he said, addressing the young man.

Luke nodded tersely and threw himself on the floor beside the blankets Tom had thrown aside. Santiago grinned and Howard rolled his eyes, unable to stay mad at his friend.

"Go to sleep, you idiots," Howard said, without much heat in his voice.

Tom settled down beside his friend and was shocked to see the glimmer of tears on his friend's face in the dim light.

"What's wrong?" he asked concernedly. "Does your head hurt?"

Luke shook his head and bit his lip.

Santiago and Howard sat up on the couch to look at their anguished friend.

"The ending of the book," he said. "Is it true? Does she really…..do we….." His voice trailed off and another tear rolled silently down his cheek.

Tom reached forward without thinking and pulled his friend into a fierce hug, followed quickly by Santiago and Howard. They stayed there, huddled in a group, not caring that the cold air was blowing in through the window or that it was nearly four in the morning.

Gradually, their embrace loosened, but they remained sprawled out on the floor near one another, too tired to move.

When Tom woke up, he was lying near Luke, using one of Howard's rocky biceps as a pillow. Glancing over, he noticed that Santiago had an arm slung protectively over Luke's chest, and that one of his own feet was entangled with Luke's. Howard was sprawled on his back, snoring loudly.

As Tom shifted to look at his watch, Luke stirred and raised his head slightly.

"Tom?" he asked, voice rough with sleep. "Why are we all on the floor?"

"Luke?" Tom said, not bothering to lower his voice.

"Who else should I be?" Luke said, looking at him like he had gone mad.

"Guys, wake up," Tom said, nudging Santiago's leg and elbowing Howard in the side.

"What?" Howard asked groggily.

"Luke's back," Tom said happily.

Santiago smiled and punched Luke lightly on the shoulder, who blinked owlishly.

"What do you mean back?" Luke asked. "And what time is it? We're going to be late for work."

Tom got up stiffly, stretching out the kinks in his back. "'We're not going to work today," he announced.

Santi shrugged and bounced gracefully to his feet, already moving to the kitchen. "I'll make breakfast."

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"Why are we eating pancakes in bowls?" Luke asked around a mouthful of food.

"Because you broke all my plates yesterday," Howard said, irritated.

"I did? Why?" Luke asked, stunned.

"You saw a spider. And you wanted to dispatch it "Batman" style," Santiago supplied helpfully.

"Oh." Luke tried to process the information. "Did I get it?" he asked hopefully after a moment.

Tom stared at him with an inscrutable gaze. "Sure, mate," he finally answered.

"Hey," Luke said suddenly, turning to face Howard. "Can I borrow your copy of "The Three Musketeers"? The director said the next scene drew pretty heavily from chapter thirty-two, and I wanted to see how I should act…" he trailed off.

Howard glanced murderously at the window, then at his friend, then back to the window.

"It's gone, Luke. Along with my dishes and security deposit," he said, angrily shoving his seat back from the table.

"Don't mind him," Santiago said consolingly. "He didn't sleep well."

"The next time something like that happens," Howard yelled from the opposite room, "he's staying at someone else's flat!"


End file.
